the adventures of becka lee.

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Music Monday: The Postal Service.

I’ve been feeling mighty nostalgic lately. Maybe it’s the pending wedding or the fact that my 24th birthday is creeping up quicker than I’d like. Or the fact that I realized that I graduated high school almost 6 years ago.

Don’t get me wrong, 23 isn’t old. In fact, most thirty-somethings wish they were in my shoes. Older people too, I’m sure. I am, however, in a strange limbo. I still think of high school memories more often than I probably should…could it be because I didn’t really go to college? Should I still reminisce about being 17 or should I be lunging towards adulthood with open arms?

At first glance, I may seem like I’ve got my shit together. I mean, I’m in a serious (and wonderful) long-term relationship with a man who I will marry before the end of this year. We have built a home together…coming up on three times. We are madly and crazily in love. And I would never change that for anything.

But, there are sometimes when a song like this comes on and you picture yourself at 17 driving with the windows down in your crappy Cutlass Supreme with a full tank of gas and your best friend in the passenger seat– wailing at the top of your lungs. Slurpee’s in the cup holder. Beads dangling from the rear-view. And you can almost picture the sweet air wafting through your nostrils and the air whipping your hair into your face. And the entire world is right in front of you and you can do with it what you please.

And then when the song’s over, you get a lump in your throat much like the one I have right now . You tighten your grip on reality and you realize that you will probably never have that sense of absolute freedom that you once had. There are some things that you will just never get back. Mortality can be a terrifying realization, I have come to find out.

However, music has the most goddamn beautiful way of resurrecting memories that you thought were buried under all the stress of bills and money and being so afraid to fuck every single thing in your life up. But they’re not lost. There are songs standing by, waiting to be devoured. New memories begging to be fastened to them forever. And I fully intend on getting my fill.

Then you realize you were ridiculous for wanting to trade 23 for 17.

23 is the best, yet. And it gets better every single day, even when it feels like it couldn’t get worse. I am alive, well, loved. And it’s only getting better with time.